Incandescent
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: incandescent – adjective – 1. (of an electric or other light) produce by a glowing white-hot filament. 2. Glowing with heat. 3. Becoming warm or intense in feeling, expression, etc. ardent. Rated M - Johnlock


**Don't Own Wish I did**

Incandescent

_incandescent – adjective – __**1.**__ (of an electric or other light) produce by a glowing white-hot filament. __**2.**__ Glowing with heat. __**3.**__ Becoming warm or intense in feeling, expression, etc. ardent._

He lay on his side, head propped on his hand, elbow locked, making a perfect triangle, watching the other man sleep. He laid his other hand, long thin fingers splayed out, across the other's chest, placed carefully over the heart so he could feel the beat of the muscle under the skin. His breath caught and hitched, his own heart raced as he compared the contrast in their skin tones. His pale, porcelain shot with moonlit luster. His partner's rich gold, kissed by the sun.

_John_

His personal star.

Sol could not shine brighter.

He knew nothing about the solar system, but he knew he orbited around the man lying beside him, pulled in by the gravity.

Bound to him.

Basked in the warmth and glow.

Waves of solar heat and radiance.

He thought somewhat with shame a phrase that had slipped out, one he had meant as a compliment but now realized how inadequately it explained a complexity like the man slumbering beside him.

_You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable._

Far from adequate.

More than a conductor of light.

He was the bearer of light.

Here was someone who cleared the darkness of his thoughts, of his feelings, of his soul. John swept in and gleamed and glistened, like morning light on the sea, the deep sea of his blue eyes. He lit the darkened corners, exposed and destroyed the monsters of doubt and fear and cruelty, kept them at bay.

John's eyes fluttered slightly, his eyelashes laid against his face, a slightly darker gold than his eyebrows, lids closed on the midnight blue sea. His nose was caressed with a few freckles; they too were a darker gold, darker than his summer tan. His fringe swept across his brow alternating shades of blonde and brown and a few strands of grey. Sherlock lifted a tentative hand to brush the hair aside. He relished in the feel of it through his fingers. The movement of his hand caused John to stir slightly and he muttered something unintelligible and Sherlock stilled his touch.

He was caught in wonder that allowed him to be in close proximity to this fission, this combustion. He should be burnt to a cinder, his heart erupting and melted. But instead he revealed in the luxury of being allowed to lie here indolent indulged and basking, under a desert sun.

With an ardor that burned through veins, boiled.

If this was stepping too close to the sun then it was worth it.

To feel this.

The man who loved him.

Put up with him.

Forgave him.

He couldn't stop himself. His hand moved of its own violation.

Not able to wait any longer.

He lightly traced his fingertips over John's chest, gently caressed his nipples and the light covering of hair, unconsciously created patterns in something exotic and beautiful like Sanskrit or Arabic, wrote his name, wrote _Mine,_ surprised that it did not leave trails of fire behind. He swept down across John's stomach to his side and brushed gently over the ribs. John stirred again. And this time Sherlock bent and placed his lips across John's, a supplication. Wove his kiss around his lips, down the chin, across his neck and his chest, kisses that blazed and scorched. Back to his mouth, slowly, slowly, savored, tasted.

John's eyes fluttered and half-asleep he turned into the kiss.

A slight smile curved his lips as he awoke, like the dawn, bringing life and warmth to the coldness of night.

He murmured, amusement evident in his voice,

"How long have you been watching me sleep?"

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "For forever." He flicked his tongue out and slowly traced the edges of John's mouth, lovingly, let the heat that was present under the surface build in intensity.

John's sleepy eyes opened, looked up into Sherlock's, pupils blown, reached out with his own tongue to entwine with the other. Reached out with his arms, his hands pulled him closer into the flames.

Tongues and legs and arms.

Skin brushing skin.

Hands and fingers captured, held, released.

Mouths, fingers, hands used for other better more erotic purposes.

Sighs and murmurs and whispers breathed and shuddered.

Names caressed, fervently.

Flesh caressed, fervently.

Faces in adoration.

Sherlock, the atheist, who worshipped on the altar that was John.

Kissed and prayed and cried out in exultation.

And he lay in the glow, in the after, in the light that never dimmed, that lit his way through darkness.

John Watson.

Incandecent.


End file.
